Shelter
by stardustfalling
Summary: She is his shelter, and he is hers. Royai.


**Heh, I'm back. Kind of. Um... Yeah! So, Royai! I love this pairing so much. ****_So _****much. Little one word prompt, and I like this one. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist or any of the characters; those belong to Arakawa Hiromu. However, I do own the story, so don't steal it.**

**Reviews are fluffy pancakes for my day, but only drop one if you like this and feel compelled to reply! Flames and criticism (including grammar; I will edit as soon as possible if I get these) are welcome, plus flames are pretty. Enjoy!**

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Shelter

Shelter.

She was his shelter, and he was hers.

The days where Ishval came back and wrapped her biting fingernails in his uniform were the worst. Those were the days he needed his lieutenant the most.

Ishval was beautiful and hideous. Her fire-nails hissed and sparked and burned his skin. Every inch of visible skin was scraped and charred, and his uniform was dotted with burn marks and holes. But still, when he walked the hallways of Central, no one gave him a second glance after the usual greeting.

It was funny, in a not-humorous way, how Ishval came to resemble the homunculus Lust after he defeated her. But of course, it was so much more painful to look Ishval in the eye; he had already found closure in Lust's death.

Ishval had bronze skin and red eyes, and her pretty face was obviously Ishvalan. Her skin was smooth except for the bruises under her eyes and on her shoulders (the shape of a gun barrel). Her fingernails were dripping in a red polish that stank of meat and dripped red stains on the floors. They gave off sparks and left burn marks wherever they touched. Her hair was long and lush, and her sand-colored robes had burn holes. Her feet were mutilated, and as the day wore on, she would slowly crumble to ash. This was President Roy's private torture.

Ishval only came when he was especially tired, or when something had happened that brought up too many memories. Having to burn someone; watching someone die; seeing her eyes take on the haunted look that had settled in them constantly in Ishval.

How, then, could she be his sanctuary? His closure? His shelter, from the storm of fire and hate and bitter tears wept over the pool of vomit behind the mess hall, not wanting anyone to see, unable to erase the image of a child's hand, half-burned, still clutching a broken, wooden giraffe.

She was there.

She hovered at his shoulder constantly. Not in a 'hovering' sort of way, but in an 'I'm here' sort of way. She was his lieutenant, ready to receive orders and protect him until the day he died.

She was there, and if Ishval came to twine her hands at his sides, quicken his breath, make him sweat, a glance up from the amber eyes of the hawk made him stand taller.

Maybe it was because she knew his history and still she stood by him. Maybe it was because she made him feel instinctively more relaxed. Maybe it was because they had history beyond the wars and the military. Maybe he wanted to stand strong in her eyes. No, that was a lie; he could never be something else in his head and in her eyes. She knew him too well._ They_ knew him too well. They knew each other too well.

Maybe, just maybe, it was because he didn't want her to feel pain or worry ever again.

Somehow, she made him feel better. She banished Ishval of the hissing claws. In times like that Roy wanted to rush-trip over to her and stumble to his knees and thank her, kissing her hands and crying with them pressed against his face. He wanted her to stroke his hair and tell him, not that it was alright, but that she knew and she understood.

These were extreme moments of weakness, and they made him feel ashamed. They wrung him out like a cloth as he wrestled with himself in his too-small bed, pressed against the wall. He wanted her to not pity him. He knew the space between them had no name or measurement, and he did not want pity to stain their relationship and trust a different color.

She did make him feel better, though. Just her presence. Just that barest hint of a smile as she looks up to see him come in in the morning.

"Good morning, Colonel."

"'Morning, Lieutenant."

It helps just to have her there. She is his shelter in the storm.

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Shelter.

He was her shelter, and she was his.

He was her shelter on the bad days. He stood, as always, forward and to the left or right of her, sheltering her from the blinding sand and the images of torture. She tried to wrap herself in the tan cloak she wore in Ishval, only to realize that, once again, she was trapped in a horrific world of her own making.

She was there for the last year of the Ishval campaign, following him to make sure he escaped injury to his physical body. During that time, she shot and killed so many people. Though it was less than most of the other officers, Riza was only there to ensure the security of officers and clean up the stragglers. That was the worst. People who had seen their friends and family and countrymen die in a hailstorm of fire, killed by her.

Three children, in all that time. Three little children died by her hands. They followed her with hollow eyes and tears streaking through that ever-present dust on their faces. They clung to her uniform as she walked through the halls.

But sometimes, he looks back. Sometimes, the children see the pain in his eyes and know that she feels that way too. Once they see that, they leave her alone. They know she hates herself for it, hates the things she did and committed for her selfish need for him. It wasn't selfish after a while. After a while, it was for the future president who would save the surviving remnants of their culture. But first, it was just for him. And sometimes, she couldn't tell herself enough lies.

Then she needed him. Then she coughed, weakly, once just so he would look back at her and ask her if she was alright. Or sometimes just look back at her. In a way, just knowing he was there was okay. He was there. Always. With her.

They would be alright. They would be alright.

"Colonel?"

He looks back at her, over his shoulder. "Hmm?" Raising an eyebrow.

"Never mind, my apologies."

He smiles then, just a little. Just the barest hint of melancholy, that only she would be able to decipher. He knows. And then he looks back in front of him at the hallway in which they walk.

He is her shelter. They will be alright.

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**Heh, that funny moment when you're too lazy to not use spellcheck and just correct it on your own, and so you correct 'nevermind' to 'never mind' and one of the options is vermin. And then you look at the word and realize that it actually says 'vermin' just with a 'ne' at the front and a 'd' at the end. Mildly disconcerting (this made no sense).**

**Hope you liked it!**


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